


Vibrancy

by tothewillofthepeople



Series: Witchboy [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Blind Character, Blind Grantaire, Curse Breaking, Curses, Deaf Character, Deaf Feuilly, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tothewillofthepeople/pseuds/tothewillofthepeople
Summary: Montparnasse puts a cigarette in his mouth and raises his eyebrows. “You’re like a child in a pond, splashing your magic around without any concern for who gets hit. Lighting up La Place Saint-Michel like a goddamn phoenix. You’re overwhelming.” He takes a step closer to Enjolras and meets his eyes very coolly. “And you’re careless,” he adds lightly, then blows a plume of blue smoke right at Enjolras’s eyes.Enjolras refuses to blink. “Get out of my face,” he orders.“Why are you so afraid to help Grantaire?” Montparnasse murmurs back.“It’s my fault he’s like this,” Enjolras says lowly, trying to carve each word into Montparnasse’s head. “I don’t want to make it worse.”





	Vibrancy

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends! it certainly has been a while! hopefully at least a few of you are still here, ready to jump back into some magic.
> 
> so! some warnings, if you need them. this story contains mentions of death and necromancy, discussions of body horror, a brief depiction of a panic attack, mentions of parent/child neglect, ableism, mentions of murder, some magical/medical issues, and kidnapping. none of these things are done in depth, nor are they particularly threatening, but if you’d like to know more about them so you can skip them just let me know.
> 
> dedicated to everyone who sent me worried asks about whether or not i was continuing this series. it’s funny that you guys thought i could ever leave. i’m trapped here.
> 
> dedicated also to people who have drawn me art/done cosplays/made playlists for this series because nothing motivates me better.
> 
> finally, dedicated to a few people out of pure spite. get wrecked.

The streets leading to Grantaire’s apartment are busy, even though it’s just after noon, but Enjolras weaves through the other pedestrians with ease. He feels buoyant today. Lighter on his feet than usual. He’s seen people levitate before, in the churches and the parks around Montmartre, and he wonders if it feels like this: clarity and happiness and uncustomary good faith. It seems like any step could be the one that catches on air and lifts him up to hover above the cobblestones.

Maybe it’s just comfort. He can navigate the boulevards without looking at the signs, he knows which side streets to cut across to avoid the worst of the traffic, and he’s doesn’t need the maps that so many tourists are frowning at in the middle of the sidewalk. Enjolras is more comfortable with himself, too; standing tall, shoulders back, a tight string of spellwork written in sharpie around one wrist. He feels like he could handle anything. He’s even wearing his favorite shirt.

He’s also coming off a full twelve hours of sleep after whatever the fuck happened in the 11e the night before, which helps. It’s a new day, Babet is safe, and Enjolras is ready to meet up with Grantaire and tackle whatever is awaiting them next.

The good feeling persists as he lets himself into Grantaire’s building, left unlocked just for him. He bounds up the steps two at a time, brimming with excitement for no reason he can name, other than that it’s a beautiful day and he’s off to see a witchboy.

When he walks into Grantaire’s apartment, he _flinches._

“Jesus,” he says, “what did you do?”

Grantaire turns around and furrows his brow. “What do you mean?” He’s standing at his kitchen counter, carefully tending to an aloe plant. His hair is tied back with a red bandana and his eyes are closed.

Enjolras waves a hand through the air. He feels awful, heavy and burdened in a painfully familiar way. He can’t place it. He can’t explain why it settled upon him so suddenly. All he knows is that it’s _wrong._ “Can’t you feel that?” he asks wildly.

“Feel _what?”_

Enjolras grits his teeth. He feels sick. “Something’s wrong,” he manages to say. “Something is terribly wrong– are you okay, are you hurt? Did someone get hurt?”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire leaves the aloe plant and moves forward with his hands held out. “Nothing is wrong. I promise.”

Enjolras presses his fingers to his chest. His breathing is fast and erratic, as is his pulse. He feels like he can’t draw a complete breath. He almost jumps out of his skin when Grantaire’s warm hands settle on his shoulders. “Grantaire,” he says forcefully.

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” Grantaire says. He runs his hands soothingly along the line of Enjolras’s shoulders.

“No,” Enjolras says, _“no,_ I was fine right before I walked through the door…”

They both freeze for a moment. Then Grantaire starts pushing Enjolras back the way he came. 

“You don’t think…” Enjolras starts to say. As soon as he trips back over the doorstep, the awful heaviness lifts. He feels a little dizzy in the wake of the rapidly receding emotion. 

“Better?” Grantaire asks lowly.

“Yes,” Enjolras gasps. He slumps against the wall across from Grantaire’s door. “What the _hell?”_

“I don’t know.” Grantaire is slowly stepping back and forth through the doorway with his brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re picking up on something that I’m not.” He turns his head in Enjolras’s direction. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Will you try to come in again?”

Enjolras straightens up and pushes his hair out of his face. “Okay,” he mutters. Grantaire moves back into the apartment to give Enjolras room to step hesitantly through the doorway.

As soon as he does, the feeling settles over him again, dark and disgusting. Enjolras pulls back without even thinking about it, trying to flee the familiar discomfort. He claps a hand over his mouth as it lifts again. “What is going _on?”_ he demands.

“I have no idea,” Grantaire says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “We need to go.”

Enjolras blinks at him. “You’re just going to leave your apartment like this?”

“No. But I’m not keen on trying to fix something when I can’t tell that it’s broken.”

“What are you going to do?” Maybe there are ways that Grantaire can remotely work with the magic around his apartment to discover what’s wrong and fix it. Enjolras isn’t sure how far Grantaire’s sensitivity extends, but maybe he can dig into the rough defensive magic of his home from across the city. It wouldn’t surprise Enjolras. Grantaire is probably just trying to get them out of the blast zone.

Grantaire lifts his phone to his ear. “I’m going to get Feuilly to fix it.”

Oh.

Enjolras leads Grantaire out of the building and takes his arm so they can navigate the busy street together. Grantaire is talking quietly into his phone, dictating texts to Feuilly and to others whose names Enjolras doesn’t know. His hands are still smudged with dirt, and his eyes are open but they aren’t fixed on anything. More than one passerby looks too long at Grantaire’s flat blue stare. They always hurry on when they notice Enjolras’s accompanying glare.

“Wait!” Grantaire says, stopping abruptly.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Grantaire points across the street. “I want coffee.”

“You’re barefoot,” Enjolras realizes. “Will they let you inside?”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s fine. They know me.”

Shaking his head, Enjolras leads them over to the little coffee shop. 

Inside the café is small and bright, with potted plants floating all over the place and fairy lights strung up on the walls. There’s a bookshelf against one wall with battered books leaning wearily against each other and a sign that says ‘take a book, leave a book.’ By the window, a pair of older men are playing poker with a deck of tarot cards.

It’s a sweet, lovely place. Grantaire has his eyes closed again and his nose in the air, inhaling the scent of coffee. Enjolras keeps one hand on his arm and waits for the small line to move forward.

“Why did I notice something in your apartment that you didn’t?” he asks in an undertone. “You’re much more sensitive than I am.”

“Am I?” Grantaire asks absently. “Close your eyes a second.”

Enjolras does. Then Grantaire asks, “How many people are in this café with us?”

“Nine,” Enjolras says. He blinks his eyes open. He isn’t sure how he knows that, but he does; he can’t feel them, necessarily, but they’re tugging at his awareness like cores of warmth. Grantaire, next to him, is a bonfire.

“I thought so,” Grantaire says, nodding. “You’ve been fidgety lately, reacting to the sorts of things usually only I notice.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea. But I’m not as surprised as you are that you noticed something new in my apartment.”

They’re out on the street a minute later, holding their coffee cups. Enjolras reads the hasty sharpie marks on the side as they walk on. It looks like shorthand, which he has no chance of being able to decode, but he knows from Grantaire that it’s to keep the coffee hot.

“Where are we going?” he asks, as Grantaire points them down a new street.

“Bossuet’s apartment. It’s closest.”

*

Bossuet, in an uncharacteristic stroke of luck, has a very well situated apartment. It’s in a rare neighborhood full of students that has not been bulldozed by the ceaseless powers of gentrification. The buildings are all slightly run down, but they retain a shabby Parisian charm. Enjolras can see people around his age hanging on the street corner, chatting and laughing, and there’s a girl in a maroon hat smoking in a doorway a few houses down. “Which one is Bossuet’s?” Enjolras asks Grantaire as they walk past her.

“I’ll know when we reach it,” is all Grantaire says. Enjolras is forced to just keep walking. Halfway down the street Grantaire stops them and points to his left. “Here.”

Enjolras presses the button and holds a short conversation with Bossuet over the intercom. The door buzzes, and they push their way in.

Bossuet is making breakfast when they reach his apartment, though it smells like he’s burnt at least part of it. “Are either of you hungry?” he asks, as he pokes at whatever’s in the pan on the stove. Enjolras politely declines. Grantaire just opens the fridge and pulls out the orange juice– clearly, he’s very familiar with this space.

Someone enters the kitchen, leaning heavily on a cane. His black hair is wet and spiky, clearly just out of a shower. “R, you beautiful bastard,” he says, catching Grantaire around the shoulders and hugging him. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“There’s some bad magic in my apartment at the moment,” Grantaire says, hugging him back. “Can we chill here for a bit?”

“You know you always can,” the stranger assures him. Then he turns to Enjolras and bursts into a smile. “Enjolras!”

Enjolras freezes. “…Hello?”

The man shakes his hand enthusiastically. “I’m Joly!” He has the black-tipped fingers of a registered necromancer.

“Oh, you’re Grantaire’s friend,” Enjolras says, relaxing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, we’ve never met.” Joly is still shaking his hand. “I recognized your name.”

“Sorry, my _name?”_

“Bit of a knack,” Joly says. He’s stopped shaking Enjolras’s hand and is now just holding it. “When I see people, I know what their names are. I’ve heard Bossuet talk about you, of course, so when I saw the name on you I figured it had to be you!” He gives Enjolras another sweet smile. “I have an advantage, of course,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you, but I don’t know if you’ve heard about me.”

“Grantaire has mentioned you,” Enjolras says. “You’re a necromancer. Like Bahorel.”

“Not quite like Bahorel,” Joly says. “I actually went to school for it. Got all my certificates and everything.” He wiggles his black fingers in the air.

Enjolras had noticed that Bahorel didn’t carry a necromancer’s marks, but he hadn’t thought anything of it. 

A soft chime interrupts his train of thought. Enjolras looks around as Grantaire pulls out his phone and raises it to his ear. “Hello?” He makes a face at whoever speaks on the other line. “Excuse me a moment,” he says to the rest of the room, drifting towards the door with one hand held out so he doesn’t run into it. “I’ll just be a moment.”

He steps out into the hallway. Just before the door shuts Enjolras can hear him asking, “What are _you_ doing in my apartment, you bastard?”

Joly looks back at Enjolras and smiles at him. “How are you holding up?” he asks, leading Enjolras into the living room.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says with some surprise. He sits on the low green couch at Joly’s bidding and plays with the watch on his wrist.

Joly sits opposite him in a soft armchair. As usual, Enjolras is surprised to speak to someone who will meet his eyes. “You’ve been through a lot in quite a short span of time, from what I’ve heard,” Joly says. “Breaking curses isn’t an easy business.”

“My curse was broken like a month ago,” Enjolras points out. He’s more preoccupied with Babet’s curse than with his own, at this point.

“But you had it for, what, twelve years? Thirteen?” Joly leans back in his armchair and tugs at his Spiderman t-shirt. “Your body has to adjust from all of that, you know. Curses are a burden on your magic. They mess with your equilibrium when they’re gone.”

“I’ve felt fine,” Enjolras says.

“Okay,” Joly says. “I’m glad.” He runs his fingers over the end of his cane. It’s very intricately carved, patterned with leaves and vines and flowers. “How’s Grantaire?”

Enjolras takes more time answering that question. “I think he’s doing well,” he answers slowly. “It’s hard to tell. I never quite know what’s normal behavior for him.”

“None of us really do,” Joly says with a frown.

“He’s an enigma,” Bossuet says from the kitchen doorway. “Joly, there are waffles in here if you want them.”

“Oh, hell yes,” Joly mutters, levering himself out of his chair.

Bossuet and Joly make a good pair, one with black-tipped fingers and one with silver. They move around each other easily, like a pair of dancers. Bossuet knows how to anticipate Joly’s offbeat walk and can move himself accordingly. Everything about them sings in harmony.

“Have you been having a good time with Grantaire?” Bossuet asks, dropping into the chair that Joly vacated. “Getting trained out of that useless English swill they teach across _La Manche?”_ Then he grins. “Though we call it _Mor Breizh,_ where I’m from.”

“The magic I learned wasn’t _useless,”_ Enjolras, says, a little sharply. 

Bossuet’s expression transforms swiftly, surprised. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” Joly, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a waffle in his mouth, looks confused.

Enjolras is spared having to respond when Grantaire reenters the room. “I welcome the sweet release of death,” the witchboy says, and then stumbles and falls onto the couch with an uncharacteristic lack of grace.

Joly and Bossuet share a concerned look. Grantaire blinks, then continues as though nothing had happened. “Montparnasse is in my apartment,” he announces, and then flops over to lay on his back. “He’ll have color-coded all my clothes again, just you wait.”

Enjolras has never seen Grantaire trip or stumble before. He doesn’t say anything about it. “Why is Montparnasse there?”

“I have no idea. He knew that someone had been meddling with the magic somehow, though I haven’t the faintest idea who would have told him.” His brow furrows. “Well, maybe I have a _faint_ idea.” He doesn’t elaborate, just keeps frowning, lost in thought.

“Is it safe to go back?” Enjolras asks.

“Soon. Feuilly is going to text me.”

“What exactly happened?” Joly asks. He sits on the arm of Bossuet’s chair and keeps eating his waffle.

Enjolras checks out of the conversation as Grantaire tells them what he knows, which isn’t much. He’s wondering about the strain of uncomfortable magic. How nauseous it made him feel. It reminded him of being a child, sick in bed, drawing the white sheets up over his face so the softness would distract him from how ill he felt. He stares unseeingly at the wall, thinking, until someone says his name. “What?”

“Were you looking at a ghost?” Bossuet jokes. “You were miles away.”

“Just thinking,” Enjolras says.

“It could have been a ghost,” Joly says with a laugh, gesturing to where Enjolras had been looking. “Every house has a cursed corner. That one is ours.”

Enjolras blinks and looks back at the corner. He can’t see anything out of the ordinary, but before he can ask, the conversation moves on around him. “My entire house is a cursed corner,” Grantaire is saying. “It’s already unlucky enough, with my black cat. Do you think if I shatter a mirror it will cancel something out?”

“I wouldn’t test it,” Joly says.

Grantaire sighs. “I hate having spellwork done on my apartment by other people. Everything feels wrong for a few days. It’s worse than new-paint smell.”

“I’m sure everything at your apartment is fine,” Bossuet says comfortingly.

“Do you know what my favorite saying is? ‘You have to see it to believe it.’” Grantaire smiles grimly. His tone is too heavy for casual conversation about his house.

Joly, Bossuet, and Enjolras all share an uncomfortable look. “You should believe in things,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t know what he would do without some credence to carry him forward. He doesn’t know what he’s following right now, which is maybe half the problem.

“I believe in darkness,” Grantaire says, “and I believe in magic. That’s all.”

“Believing in magic is no small thing,” Bossuet says.

“You said that magic covered all sorts of things,” Enjolras adds. “Love, and hope, and trust. So by definition you believe in those too.”

Grantaire aims a smile in his general direction. “If you say it, it must be true,” he says easily. “How could I deny one with such a golden tongue?”

Enjolras scowls.

Grantaire’s phone chimes. He holds it to his ear so it can speak to him and then smiles. “Feuilly says it’s safe to go home.”

*

When they reach the street again, Grantaire pulls his red bandana down over his eyes. Enjolras frowns but doesn’t mention it, even though leading him through the streets like that makes him feel like he’s delivering Grantaire to a firing squad. They get even more looks from passersby as they walk back to Grantaire’s apartment.

Joly and Bossuet had tried to ply them with more breakfast food as they left, and each of them had given Enjolras a hug before Grantaire pulled him out the door. He feels warm in the aftereffects of their easy friendship, but his mind is still weaving careful circles.

“Joly’s knack seems very odd to me,” Enjolras says, once they’re a few block away from Bossuet’s.

“Oh?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Courfeyrac’s seems more useful, almost,” he says. “He knows when people are upset, or angry. He can help them. I guess Joly never has to be embarrassed by forgetting someone’s name, but that doesn’t seem like much.”

“Joly works in a hospital, remember,” Grantaire says. His tone is mild but Enjolras can detect a hint of reproach. “When people are brought in unconscious or without ID, Joly can identify them. The hospital staff relies on him quite heavily in those cases. With bodies, too. He says names don’t leave the dead right away.” He tips his head in Enjolras’s direction. “Doesn’t that sounds useful?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Enjolras admits.

“I realized.” Grantaire is quiet for a moment. “Knacks are quite odd,” he says next. “They aren’t as random as you might think. They don’t manifest at birth– they come later. Joly didn’t get his until he had started med school. And it suits him, doesn’t it? Even though it’s unexpected.”

“It’s sort of like Montparnasse’s hands,” Enjolras says. “Unexpected, but he turned it into a strength.”

“Well, curses and knacks are quite different,” Grantaire replies. “People cast curses. They’re man-made. Knacks just…happen. Though unless someone tells you, I suppose it can be difficult to know if something is a knack or a curse.”

“Do you have any knacks?”

“Not yet.”

“Not _yet?”_

“It’s common for people with a lot of power to develop knacks,” Grantaire says. “Most people don’t keep them forever. They come and go. If Joly retires from being a doctor, his might go away. No one knows. It’s a very imprecise science. Some people have several knacks over the course of their lives. Some people have multiple knacks _at the same time.”_ He shrugs. “Odds are I’ll have one at some point. Odds are you will too, you golden fiend.”

“I never knew.”

“You might have not realized it. Not everyone calls them knacks– depends on where you are. Talents, gifts, bents… If you don’t know the magical connotations, the words are common enough to not raise any eyebrows.”

“What causes them? Does anyone know?”

“There are theories, of course. Lots of people study them. Personally, I think they happen because magic responds to what people _want.”_

Enjolras thinks about that for a while. What does he want? He abandons the question almost right away and thinks about other things. After a minute he asks, “Would an evil person have an evil knack?”

“Depends on your definition of evil But yes. Most of the more prominent bad guys in history had pretty notorious knacks.” They’ve reached Grantaire’s building, so the conversation dies there as they climb up the staircase. Grantaire looks much calmer now that he’s back in his own space.

Enjolras hesitates before he walks through the door of the apartment itself, but nothing happens. The curse, clearly, has been purged from the space.

Feuilly is sitting at the table by the window, scratching the black cat behind the ears. Montparnasse is there too. The two don’t look like they’ve been speaking; they’re glaring in opposite directions, and they both sit up expectantly when the door opens.

“What do we know?” Grantaire asks, sitting right on the floor and pull the bandana back up over his forehead. Enjolras steps around him and goes to sit at the table with Feuilly. 

“It was Claquesous,” Montparnasse says immediately. “I recognized it straightaway.”

Feuilly raises an eyebrow at Enjolras and asks a quick question with his hands. Enjolras starts fingerspelling _Claquesous_ as clearly as he can. Then he looks over at Montparnasse and says, “Face Feuilly so he can understand you.”

Montparnasse frowns, but after a moment he pivots so Feuilly has a better view of his face. The cat wanders over to Grantaire.

“It was Claquesous’s magic all over again. I think that’s why he told us where Babet was. He wanted you out of your apartment last night so he could lay spells on it– observational stuff.”

“Why is he interested in me?” Grantaire asks. He doesn’t look menacing at the moment, sitting on the floor with one hand stroking his cat’s ears. “I don’t do anything.”

“I think you intrigue him,” Montparnasse says. “We came here when Babet was murdered. He would have noticed that. Add this fiend into the mix…” He gestures at Enjolras.

Enjolras shifts in his chair. “He knows about me?”

“Probably.”

“How?”

“Because you don’t keep quiet.”

Enjolras scowls. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that money talks, and when you have a kid that’s speaking gold it talks more than ever. You keep famous company, and you’ve done a lot of magic in ways that attract a lot of attention.”

“Like what?”

“Like freezing an entire room of people fighting,” Grantaire cuts in. His voice is low. “Those men would have told Claquesous about that as soon as they got out of there.”

“What you did was far more impressive than me,” Enjolras points out bitterly.

“No one was on the rooftop with us,” Montparnasse reminds him, beginning to pace. “You and me, Babet and Grantaire, Bahorel. No one else knows Grantaire can grab magic with his hands.”

“Face Feuilly,” Enjolras says, a second time.

Montparnasse waves a hand at him. “Just tell him what I said later.”

Enjolras steps forward, grabs Montparnasse by the shoulder, and forcefully pushes him to face Feuilly again. “He’s part of this conversation,” Enjolras says firmly. “Either face him and tell him what’s going on or _stop talking.”_

Montparnasse pushes Enjolras’s hand off his shoulder and glares at him. But he doesn’t turn away from Feuilly again.

 _“No one else knows,”_ he repeats sharply. “No one else knows what Grantaire did that night. Not that it matters.” He tugs on his well-fitted jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles caused by casual movement, and looks at Grantaire. “You’ve drawn Claquesous’s attention enough already. He knows you broke Babet’s curse, even if he doesn’t know _how.”_

“So is he just keeping a watchful eye on me?” Grantaire asks lazily. “Or is there something more sinister about his interest?”

“Claquesous deals in curses. You’ve been breaking them. He might see you as his rival,” Montparnasse says.

“How do you know him?” Feuilly asks. 

Montparnasse glares.

Grantaire props himself up on one elbow. “I don’t know this story either. I’m intrigued.” 

“He has your handprint,” Enjolras remembers.

Montparnasse crosses his arms. “I hate you all.” Then he sighs, like a put-upon child, and stares at the ceiling. “He’s the one who killed Babet.”

Enjolras stares at him. He can’t tell if Montparnasse is joking.

“You know he died, right?” Montparnasse adds. “It was Claquesous. Poison in one of my teacups.”

“Why did he want to kill Babet?” Feuilly demands.

“He didn’t.” Montparnasse clears his throat. He still won’t meet any of their eyes. “He was trying to kill me. Babet just got caught in the crosshairs.”

“Do your friends usually try to kill you?” Enjolras asks.

Montparnasse frowns a him. “He’s not my friend.”

“He has your handprint.”

“You seem oddly fixated on that.”

“I just think it’s interesting.”

“Are you as interested in the handprint I left on you?”

“No, because I know how it got there.” Enjolras fixes Montparnasse with a piercing stare. He knows he has a severe expression when he’s irritated, an inclination to look murderous when anger stirs in his blood. He knows his eyes are sharp, so he levels them at Montparnasse and waits.

Montparnasse glares back. “Do you think I’m scared of you, you fucking child?”

“I’m fairly sure that I’m older than you,” Enjolras says acidly. “Your dealings with Claquesous are putting Grantaire and I in danger. So _tell us what you know.”_

Montparnasse falls to his knees like he’s been struck. Too late, Enjolras recognizes the burn of magic in his own voice. Montparnasse starts talking like he can’t help himself. 

“He’s a magician,” he says, “and a phantom. Something malevolent that crawled out of the catacombs a few years ago– no one knows his real name, no one knows where he’s from. He’s a demon. He asked me to work on a project with him a few years ago, and I put a handprint on him so I could find him more easily in the dark. And because I didn’t trust him.”

“Do you often work with people you don’t trust?” Enjolras asks.

“I don’t trust anyone.” Montparnasse says automatically, then shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “He consented to the handprint at the time. He’s been trying to get rid of it ever since, but I hadn’t seen him since that night until we went to get Babet.”

Grantaire runs one hand through his hair. “What was the project?”

Montparnasse grimaces. “Paintings. We robbed a museum together.” 

“What went wrong?” Enjolras asks. He can’t imagine how a shared desire for stolen paintings could have morphed into something so murderous.

“I took one of the paintings for myself. I didn’t know what it was worth.” Montparnasse swallows. “Millions, in case you were wondering. He’s been trying to get it back ever since. And I think he kidnapped Babet so I would be forced to give it to him– but I’m not sure why he just let Babet go when we showed up.”

“Why can’t you give the painting back?” Feuilly asks carefully.

“That would be admitting defeat.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. 

“None of this really explains why my apartment is suddenly his new focus,” Grantaire points out. Privately, Enjolras wonders why the apartment _wouldn’t_ be a thief’s focus. The more time he spends here the more dubious legality he finds in the various odds and ends that Grantaire owns.

Montparnasse drops his head back. He’s still on his knees, breathing heavily and straining like something is keeping him there. “He might think the painting is here. It’s more likely that he just wants to keep an eye on you.” He shoots Enjolras a murderous look. “It’s just as well that he didn’t find you while this one was still spitting gold.”

“We helped you find Babet,” Grantaire says, climbing to his feet. “So you need to fix this. _You_ need to figure this out. Do you hear me, Montparnasse?”

“I’m not going to promise you anything until this one undoes my fucking chains,” Montparnasse spits, gesturing at Enjolras.

“Enjolras, you’re still compelling him with your magic,” Feuilly says quietly. “Let him go.”

Enjolras isn’t sure how. But he tries to find the magic, the thin strands of power connecting him to Montparnasse, and severs them. Moments later, Montparnasse is on his feet, looking murderous.

“You throw your magic around like it’s a party trick,” he snarls. “You’re going to hurt someone, unless someone puts a knife in your chest first.”

Enjolras balls his hands into fists. “I’d like to see them try.”

Grantaire pushes Montparnasse back a step and says, “That’s enough, you two.”

Montparnasse bares his teeth at Enjolras. “You talk big. But you still don’t have a fucking clue. You can’t tell the magical equivalent of right from left.”

“I said that’s _enough,_ Mont. He’s still learning.”

Enjolras hasn’t been angry for a long time. It burns like alcohol in the back of his throat. “You have no idea what I can do,” he says. “Stop treating me like a fucking child.” He doesn’t know if his words are aimed just at Montparnasse anymore.

“Enjolras,” Feuilly says warningly.

“Leave it alone, you two,” Grantaire says. “Enjolras is the one who noticed the curse in the first place, Mont, I had no idea it was here. And Enjolras– don’t put spells on people without their permission, for fuck’s sake.”

Enjolras looks away, too frustrated to feel properly ashamed. “Why did _I_ notice it?” he asks after a moment. His tone is frozen and civil.

“I think your body recognizes being cursed,” Feuilly says. His tone is slightly rushed– he’s clearly decided that the best way to handle the situation is to ignore the tension. “You’re sensitive to it. That could be why you noticed the magic in the apartment before Grantaire did. The curse wasn’t doing anything to you– you were just reacting to the way it felt.”

Enjolras nods. That had been the worst part about walking into the apartment– the familiarity of the negative feeling. It was like pain he had forgotten, settling over his body again.

He doesn’t speak again, just keeps his gaze aimed out the window. Grantaire wanders over to his kitchen counter to make tea; Feuilly and Montparnasse look at each other. “Out of pure curiosity,” Feuilly says, “what is the painting that you have?”

Montparnasse fidgets for a moment, unwilling. Then he sighs and says, “A Cézanne.”

Feuilly’s eyes widen. “Not…”

“Yes. _That_ Cézanne.”

Feuilly looks pale. He puts his head down on the table.

“I don’t know anything about art,” Enjolras admits.

“Neither do I,” Grantaire says lightly. “Does it matter?”

“I’m glad that you appreciate it, at least,” Montparnasse says morosely when Feuilly looks up at him again.

“He’s a beautiful painter,” Feuilly says dejectedly.

“I like the colors,” Montparnasse says. “There’s a certainly liberty in painting landscapes. ‘I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.’”

Enjolras frowns. “What?”

Montparnasse waves a hand at him. “It’s Baudelaire. Ignore me.”

Enjolras gives him another hard look and then goes back to staring out the window. A painting. All of this for a painting. Babet’s kidnapping, Babet’s _murder,_ the spells on the apartment… In Enjolras’s imagination, thieves deal with guns and knives and suitcases of money. He’s never met someone like Montparnasse, who seems chiefly concerned with pretty clothes and pretty paintings and poetry. He’s an aesthete disguised as a criminal. Though, Enjolras reflects, those two things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.

When he turns around again, Montparnasse and Feuilly are getting ready to leave. “Let me know if anything else happens,” Feuilly is saying to Grantaire. “It was easy to get rid of, but it did end up taking both of us.”

Enjolras catches Montparnasse’s eye. Montparnasse flips him off.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says to them both. 

Feuilly snaps to get Enjolras’s attention and signs, _thank you. text me._ Enjolras nods. “Enjolras, aren’t you going with them?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras blinks. “I told Courfeyrac I would be here today,” he says uncertainly.

There’s a frown on the witchboy’s face. “Apparently my apartment is a magnet for bad magic right now. You should go back to Courf’s.”

“Is it okay for _you_ to stay here?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire waves his concern away with one hand. “I’ll be fine,” he says shortly.

“I thought we were going to try to figure out more about Claquesous,” Enjolras tries again.

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’ve had enough of Claquesous for today.”

They’re both silent for a moment. Grantaire scratches his cat under the chin. The red bandana is still holding his messy curls back from his face and the soles of his feet are covered in dirt. Enjolras wants to stay. He wants to sit and read out loud to Grantaire, or practice magic with him, or sit in his garden. 

If magic responds to what people want, it should intervene to keep him here. But there’s nothing to be done. Enjolras stands up and gathers his things. Montparnasse and Feuilly are still standing by the door, watching and waiting. “Can I come see you tomorrow?” Enjolras asks.

“I’ll text you,” Grantaire says. “I don’t want you coming if it’s not safe.”

Enjolras looks at him for a long moment, which Grantaire doesn’t notice, because he can’t notice. He just keeps on stroking the black cat. Enjolras sighs and says goodbye. 

He doesn’t appreciate being treated like glass. He’s distracted when he parts ways with Montparnasse and Feuilly on the street, and he frowns the entire way to Courfeyrac’s house.

*

Courfeyrac makes Enjolras a cup of tea while he listens to Enjolras tersely explain his day, about Montparnasse, about Grantaire’s disregard for his personal safety. Once Courfeyrac brings the teacup over, Enjolras lapses into disgruntled silence as he stirs in honey and takes a sip. Courfeyrac sits across from him, looking unusually somber.

“That sounds like kind of a lot. Are you sure you’ve been doing okay?” Courfeyrac asks, after a few more moments of silence.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says. “Why?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “You seem… I don’t know. Subdued.”

Enjolras frowns at him. “I’m the same today as I was yesterday.” Maybe a bit more tired, though. He had done a lot of running and fighting the night before.

“That’s not what I mean.” Courfeyrac sighs and sets down his own mug so he can look Enjolras in the eyes with no distractions. “You were like a firecracker when I first met you. I remember you getting into a fistfight with a boy two grades older because you thought he was being unfair.” He falls silent for a moment and watches Enjolras as though he’s waiting for something. “You don’t yell the way you used to.”

“I wasn’t even seven,” Enjolras reminds him. He wonders what Courfeyrac would have thought of his conversation with Montparnasse.

“People don’t usually lose that kind of fire.”

“That’s not true. Everyone mellows out as they grow older.”

“Because they naturally mellow. Not because they’ve shoved their sparks down as far as they can go. Do you know what you feel like to me?”

“What?”

“Like fire trapped inside a glass. You’d think it would starve for want of oxygen, but it doesn’t. It just grows more desperate. You’ve got your emotions buried deep but the glass is going to shatter someday, Enjolras, and it won’t be pleasant when it does.”

Enjolras sets down his plate as well and lays his palms flat on the table. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You make yourself so quiet,” Courfeyrac says. “Even still. Have you been speaking? Have you been using your magic?”

Enjolras shrugs. He doesn’t feel like mentioning how he forced Montparnasse to his knees.

Courfeyrac hesitates, then settles back into his wooden chair. “I know what it feels like,” he says quietly. “Not– I mean, my parents loved me. But I’ve felt it from other people. That kind of neglect.”

“I wouldn’t call it neglect,” Enjolras mutters. “They were overly interested in me. In my curse.”

“Emotional neglect,” Courfeyrac corrects. “I worry about you.” Enjolras leans back in his chair and stares at the table as Courfeyrac keeps talking. “I want you to know that you can talk for as long and loud as you want, and no one will be counting the words to see how much they profit. And no one will punish you for silence. Your voice is your own now, Enjolras. I just… I’m worried that you still don’t know that.”

“I talk,” Enjolras says shortly. “I ask questions.”

“There’s no balance between the words you say and the emotion that festers in you. I can tell.”

“What do you want from me?” Enjolras asks, defensive. “Should I vent my every worry, go up on a soapbox for every irritation? I’m not going to put myself on display just because you think it’s better for my _emotional health.”_

“Your tone says volumes about how you value your emotional health,” Courfeyrac replies pointedly. “I’ll drop it for now, if you want me to. I just wanted to say.”

Enjolras picks up his plate again and carries it to the sink. 

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Courfeyrac adds, more quietly.

“I’m going for a walk,” Enjolras says. Then, because Courfeyrac looks dejected, he adds, “I’m not angry. I just need to think.”

Courfeyrac nods. Enjolras leaves.

Within fifteen minutes he’s lost in a non-threatening way. He’s never seen this street before but he doesn’t care. It’s bright and full of people– tourists, from the look of them. He can hear the easy chatter of English from several of them.

He walks with his hands in his pockets, trying not to seethe. He wants someone to set him on fire, which is a very specific desire whose cause he does not know. There’s too much of him. His body is an ill-fitting suit and he wants to tear himself out of it.

There’s also a reedy, trembling part of him that wants to leave Paris. Latch onto one of these tourists and let them pull him away from here, away from who he is here.

But he can’t do that. He has Courfeyrac to think of, and Combeferre. And Feuilly. 

And Grantaire.

Besides, where would he go? Back to England? Back where it rains, back where magic is kept under wraps? He doesn’t think he could. It would feel like depriving himself of something. Like losing his voice. He doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it.

He needs something to do. He has nothing, other than Grantaire’s never-ending vague instructions to learn more magic. There’s no structure there, no driving force, especially not since Grantaire won’t let him help chase down Claquesous. Without a goal Enjolras is aimless and uncomfortable. He needs a flag to rally behind.

He’s thought about taking classes, but he knows Grantaire has a negative view of academia, so he hasn’t brought it up to the witchboy in a while. “The accommodations were shit,” Grantaire had said, when Enjolras asked if he’d ever been a student. “and they kept telling me that I had learned ‘bad magic’ and I would have to start over from scratch. I was like, thanks, I’ve been doing fine without your elitism so far.”

 _But he did the same thing to me,_ Enjolras thinks uncomfortably. _Didn't he?_ Grantaire is invaluable to Enjolras; he’s learned more about his own magic after a summer in Paris than he did throughout his entire adolescence, to say nothing of the fact that Grantaire had broken Enjolras’s malevolently golden curse. But Grantaire has his own system of magic that is a little too intuitive for Enjolras to follow. He can’t help but wonder if he should try to focus his efforts on something more structured.

He taps the sharpie spells on his wrist. He thinks about the abuse he suffered at the hands of his tutors at home, who had structured their curriculum so rigidly that it had felt like a cage.

“Enjolras?”

He turns around. Bossuet is standing there, looking at him with a confused smile. “Fancy seeing you again,” he says.

“Hi,” Enjolras says, caught off guard. “What are you doing?”

“Picking up something for breakfast tomorrow.” Bossuet holds up the paper bag in his hands to demonstrate. Enjolras can see a baguette poking out of the top. “What are _you_ doing?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Walking.”

There’s a knowing edge to Bossuet’s smile. “Mind if I join you?” he asks. “The Jardin des Plantes is just down that way, if you want to wander through there.”

“I’d prefer to be around more people,” Enjolras says haltingly. 

“Well, we can do that too. This way? Sometimes there are artists who set up along this street.”

So they go, Bossuet still holding his sack of food. There are artists with little stalls set up along the street that Bossuet pointed them down. Some of them are doing stylistic portraits of tourists. One man is painting the building across the street, which is made of interesting orange stone and has flowers in all the window boxes. One stall is displaying paintings of sunsets that hold an impossible amount of light. Enjolras knows they’re magical, knows it as surely as if he had sunk power into the canvas himself.

There’s a busker too, a young man with an accordion on the street corner signing something grandiose and swaying back and forth. His feet are bare and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up. There’s a top hat set on the ground in front of him, so Enjolras fishes a few coins out of his pocket and drops them in.

One of his gold coins is mixed in with the other loose change. Enjolras blinks at it, then looks back up.

 _“Merci, monsieur!”_ the accordion player says, around the lyrics of the song. His fingers are quick on the accordion keys. Enjolras watches for a moment, mesmerized by the music and the man’s skillful playing. He has a red tattoo around one wrist and a few black symbols on the knuckles of his other hand. He looks even younger than Enjolras is, but he moves with an enviable easy assurance as he plays and winks at a girl strolling by.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Bossuet asks as they keep walking.

Enjolras thinks. Bossuet would certainly be more open to questions about university and such– he lives with Joly after all, who is a med student– but Enjolras doesn’t feel like opening that conversation yet. “Can you feel magic in other people?” he asks instead.

Bossuet hums. “Not really. Only if they’re directing it at me. Why?”

Enjolras kicks a rock down the pavement and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It seems like people keep telling me about all this energy I have that I’m not using,” he says. “That I’m stifling it. Courfeyrac talks about me like I’m going to blow up a city block with a single word.”

“So why don’t you use it?”

“I have been.” He holds out his wrist so Bossuet can see the black marks scrawled there.

Bossuet glances at them and shakes his head. “That’s small stuff. You want something bigger.” He smiles suddenly. “I have an idea.”

Bossuet leads him back along the street, past the accordion player, past the orange building and the man painting it. They take a few dizzying turns and emerge across the street from the Place Saint-Michel. Enjolras has visited here before, has seen the statue of St. Michel, but this time he stops and stares.

The square is full of light.

There’s a small crowd of people in front of the fountain, laughing and talking and– practicing? Enjolras isn’t sure. They’re surrounded by color, every single one of them, like a shimmering cloud. There are also people like him who are hanging back and watching.

It’s beautiful. Like stained glass come alive. Someone has climbed up into the fountain and is weaving a halo for the statue St. Michel out of sparkling silver light. Another man is sitting on the lip of the fountain, playing the guitar. Every note sends soft violet light streaming off the strings. There are only a handful of people participating but they make the square look like a painting. One young man’s magic is the same rose gold color as the pillars on either side of the fountain. It’s unbearably beautiful.

“What are they doing?” Enjolras asks reverently.

Bossuet smiles in the face of his awe. “Isn’t it lovely? I don’t know how it got started– I think it was buskers at first, they used to gather here at sunset and do impromptu stuff, making music and color. Joly and I came once when it was still like that, it was awesome.” He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Tourists got wind of it, though, and then the square was so busy at sunset that it was disrupting traffic. The police came and put a stop to it.” He nods at the man with the guitar, still bleeding violet. “He could get in trouble, if a cop comes along.”

“But they couldn’t stop it completely,” Enjolras says. The existing magicians are proof of that. Some of them are so young– the boy making St. Michel’s halo looks like he’s barely thirteen. Now that Enjolras looks harder, he can see that the boy is hovering, not touching the statue at all as he works.

“Nope.” Bossuet grins. “If too many people come we’ll have to scatter, the pigs still come to break it up sometimes, but it looks like we’re in luck tonight.” He takes Enjolras by the elbow and leads him across the street to join the people in front of the fountain.

It’s even more stunning up close.

“Have you tried this before?” Bossuet asks him. “Making light like this?” He’s backlit with aquamarine; it shines on the edges of his silver fingers.

“I can do sparks,” Enjolras says with a shrug. He demonstrates, making slivers of gold fly out from his hands. Another trick learned from a friend of Grantaire’s. He isn’t sure when his education became so scattered, but unlike earlier, he doesn’t feel bad about it right now.

Bossuet smiles at him. “You learned that from Feuilly, didn’t you?” He doesn’t wait for Enjolras to reply. “Try it. Use your words.”

“I don’t know which words to use.”

“The words themselves don’t matter. The intention does. Pick a color, think about light, and say it as many times as you need to. It’ll come.”

Enjolras still hesitates. He looks around for inspiration. Everyone seems to have their own distinct color– which should he pick? Which language should he use? He looks down the road and focuses on the stoplights. _Okay, red._ That’s easy. English or French? Should he say _red_ or _rouge?_ Saying a single word over and over sounds foolish. He takes a deep breath and borrows Baudelaire instead.

“I should like the fields tinged with red,” he says, and light wells up between his palms. 

“Good!” Bossuet says. “Now make it move.”

Enjolras moves his hands further apart. The light expands with him. It isn’t a uniform ball of color– it’s like a galaxy. It has spirals and striations. The edges of it ebb.

“Like you’re painting,” Bossuet encourages him. “Go on.”

But Enjolras doesn’t wave his hands the way others in the square are doing. He just turns his palms upwards and lets the light spill over the edges. It drips around him, bloody and magnificent. He turns in a circle and gives himself a set of red rings, like Saturn. They blur and shimmer. “God, that’s lovely,” he murmurs, and the light glows brighter. He moves his hands further apart, letting the light spread. Others in the square are turning to look at his vibrancy. He lets it surround him completely, like a shroud, and spreads his arms wide.

“Oh, jesus,” Bossuet says, taking a step back. He holds one hand up in front of his eyes to shield them; Enjolras is so much brighter than everyone else.

Awash with red in the middle of a Parisian square, Enjolras starts to laugh.

*

“Enjolras. Hey. Hey, Enjolras.”

“Hmmm?”

“Your light is bleeding into the street, and that cop over there doesn’t look very happy about it.”

“Oh. Oh, shit. What should we do?”

“We should probably run.”

*

The sun has set by the time Enjolras gets back to Courfeyrac’s. He feels languid and comfortable, the kind of warm exhaustion that always settles on him after a long run. He and Bossuet had sprinted away from the Place Saint-Michel, laughing and ducking around pedestrians, Bossuet vainly trying to juggle his paper sack of food and Enjolras still sparking scarlet from his fingertips.

The apartment is quiet when he lets himself in– Combeferre and Courfeyrac are already in bed. Enjolras sets up his blankets on their couch and falls into them gratefully. He’s tired, but there are too many thoughts to wind down before he can sleep.

Today was one of the first times magic had felt like an extension of himself. It had been so red. Like it was a part of his bloodstream, flowing around his body as well as within. It had felt so warm.

He’s fascinated by the ways magic is woven so tightly into people’s lives. Not just their actions, but their bodies. Grantaire’ tattoos, Montparnasse’s handprints, Joly’s black-tipped fingers and Bossuet’s silver ones. The magic he was accustomed to as a child was held at arm’s length, channeled through another medium and directed away from oneself. He’s never seen anyone take power straight into the body the way Grantaire and his cohorts do naturally. Like they’re trying to swallow raw magic until their mouths are dripping gold. 

One of Enjolras’s legs spasms, cutting off his reverie. He’s trembling. He isn’t cold, but his body is shaking all over, almost imperceptibly.

Enjolras sits up in the dark and wraps his arms around his knees. 

It feels like hours before the trembling stops and he can go to sleep.

In the morning, Combeferre makes rich dark coffee and drinks it black. Enjolras joins him. He understands the institutions of sugar and cream but he thinks they make it too sweet.

After a few moments of compatible silence, Combeferre clears his throat and says, “Bossuet sent me a very interesting text.”

“Oh?”

“He said he helped you ‘find yourself.’”

Enjolras grins. “Hardly. He was just showing me tricks– making light, stuff like that. There was a whole square of people practicing.”

“Oh, Saint-Michel? I’ve been there. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Enjolras nods. “I’m surprised Grantaire never took me.”

“It might not have occurred to him. He isn’t very showy like that. He wouldn’t be able to see it, of course, and he can be quite private about showing his magic to people he doesn’t know.”

“Why?”

Combeferre hums for a moment, trying to find the right words. “Imagine a house held together with duct tape.”

“Okay?”

“Grantaire is the house. The magic is the duct tape.”

Enjolras blinks at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Grantaire really is an unusual case. If his accident had ever been publicized I don’t doubt that he would have been a medical, magical marvel. There would have been articles written about him, books, documentaries… National attention on a scale he never would have wanted.” Combeferre sighs. “People don’t survive overexposure to that much magic. The fact that Grantaire did is astonishing.”

“How did he?”

“No one knows. Not even him. But, Enjolras… It did take a toll. His skin was quite literally split open in places– I’m sure you’ve seen the scars. His blood was gold. Some of his bones were broken, and some had changed shape. It was quite horrific. The healing process was extensive, but his retinas were burned beyond repair.”

“He didn’t tell me it was that bad,” Enjolras murmurs.

“Because he doesn’t like to. And because he doesn’t remember it– he was unconscious for a long, long time. “

Enjolras stays quiet, mulling over the story, while Combeferre sips his coffee and reads a newspaper. He shouldn’t be surprised. Grantaire is like a glass always spilling over with water. Or more like the ocean, confined in a single body. No wonder he can do such strange, incredible things– he’s absolutely brimming with power. It’s hard to imagine him as diminished in any way, but Enjolras finds himself wondering what Grantaire would be with his sight. In another life, he would be a busker glowing violet, or a painter sinking light into a canvas. “Are you allowed to be telling me this?” Enjolras asks.

Combeferre gives him a small nod. “Grantaire asked me to,” he says. “He said he told you most of the story, but he wanted you to have more of the details.”

At that moment Courfeyrac enters the kitchen, on the phone. His eyebrows are drawn together in a worried line. “Of course you can come here,” he says, simultaneously making a face at Combeferre that seems to convey _is it okay if he comes here?_

Combeferre rolls his eyes but makes a short gesture with one hand– Enjolras chooses to interpret it as, _I don’t agree with what’s going on but go ahead._ Courfeyrac, judging by the way his expression brightens, interprets it the same way. “Yeah, come on over,” he says. “We’ll figure it all out.”

His eyes dart around the kitchen as he listens to the voice on the other line. “It’s not an imposition. I’ll see you soon.” He pulls the phone from his ear, ends the call, and looks up at Combeferre.

“Who was that?” Combeferre asks. There’s something low about his tone that makes Enjolras think that he already knows exactly who was on the phone.

Courfeyrac makes an expansive shrugging gesture. “He can’t go home. You know what his grandfather is like,” he says. His tone is pleading. Combeferre sighs.

“You don’t need to convince me, it’s fine if he comes here,” he says. “I don’t actually dislike him, you know.”

“He thinks you do.”

“Is that my fault?”

Courfeyrac gives him a sudden grin. His expression is wicked, and Enjolras feels like if he doesn’t say something the two of them are going to completely forget he’s there. “Who’s coming over?” he asks, a touch loudly.

Combeferre pulls off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “A friend of Courfeyrac’s,” he says. 

“His name is Marius Pontmercy!” Courfeyrac says brightly. “I think you’ll like him. You two have something in common.”

Enjolras frowns. “What’s that?”

“You’re both runaways.”

Enjolras lapses into a thoughtful silence. 

*

Pontmercy is even younger than Enjolras, though a bit taller. He has dark skin with darker freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, and black hair cut close to his scalp. The most interesting thing about his appearance, however, are his eyes. One is dark brown, almost black. The other is an eerie, icy blue.

“They told me you’re good with spoken magic,” he says politely, holding out his hand. His eyes are wide with either anticipation or fear, which makes the colors stand out even more sharply.

“Oh, I forget to tell you,” Courfeyrac says. “Pontmercy is legally part of the cursed population of Paris. He can only speak in eight-word sentences.”

Enjolras gives Pontmercy an incredulous look. “That sounds terrible.”

“Luckily for me, eight is a magical number,” Pontmercy says. He gives a sliver of a smile. “I’m good at making it work for me.” His sentences are oddly clipped, and he speaks slowly, clearly measuring his words carefully, but he’s adapted well to his curse.

“Sit down,” Courfeyrac says. “Do you want coffee?”

Pontmercy nods. Enjolras sits across from him and studies him, wondering how rude it is to ask questions. Pontmercy, however, beats him to it. He meets Enjolras’s stare and asks, “Didn’t you have a speaking curse as well?”

“I did,” Enjolras says. “I had gold coins fall out of my mouth every time I spoke.”

“That sounds like something from a fairy tale.”

Enjolras nods. “It was.”

“But how did you manage to break it?”

Enjolras taps his fingers on the table. “Grantaire figured it out. It was written in a book that I had, and when we burned the page that the spell was on, it stopped.” He sighs. “I still don’t know where the gold was coming from, though.” It hasn’t been on his mind as much lately, which is despicable. He shouldn’t get complacent about not being cursed.

“I have been trying to find different doctors,” Pontmercy says. “None of them are able to help me. There’s supposed to be an agency for this. They were also no help to me whatsoever.”

“Oh, trust me,” Enjolras says. “I’m aware how unhelpful public institutions are for curses.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at him, surprised.

“What?” Enjolras asks.

“I didn’t realize you had gone to anyone for help,” Courfeyrac admits.

“In London,” Enjolras says. “By the time I got to Provence I had stopped asking.”

“Why?”

Enjolras blinks at him for a moment. “Because none of them truly wanted to help me,” he says flatly. “They just wanted me to stay, so they could profit off my gold.”

 _Are you sure you want me to break this curse?_ a doctor had once asked him. _It seems like a blessing to me. Something to cherish. Something to value._ When Enjolras had tried to leave, the doctor had barred the way.

Enjolras pushes the memory out of his head and focuses back on Pontmercy. “My attention, unfortunately, has been rather divided lately,” he says. “I have been trying to get legal emancipation.”

“From your grandfather?” Combeferre asks.

Pontmercy nods. Enjolras thinks to himself that this boy would benefit from sign language– he wouldn’t have to string simple affirmations out into eight words if he could use one simple hand movement instead. Would Pontmercy’s curse extend to sign language? Would he only be able to form phrases with eight signs? It seems insensitive to ask. He makes a mental note to ask Feuilly about it.

“Since I’m seventeen it seems a bit foolish,” Pontmercy is saying. “Once I’m eighteen it won’t even matter anymore. Legally, I’ll be an adult at that point. But I’ve been trying since I was fifteen. I don’t think I can just abandon it.”

“Why haven’t you been able to?” Enjolras asks.

Courfeyrac clears his throat. “Public support for people with curses isn’t great,” he says. “There’s no proof that Pontmercy’s grandfather was the one who cursed him, so _legally…”_

“Legally there is no reason for my emancipation,” Pontmercy finishes. Even saying the words make him look exhausted.

Enjolras has never wanted to murder someone so badly in his entire life. He’s never met Pontmercy’s grandfather, but Enjolras knows what it’s like to be seventeen, cursed, alone, scared.

Though, admittedly, Pontmercy isn’t alone as Enjolras was. He has Courfeyrac. The end of Enjolras’s adolescence would have been much different if he’d had a friend like Courfeyrac around.

“And you don’t have any other family?” Enjolras asks. “No siblings, no parents?”

“Well, I have one cousin, and one aunt,” Pontmercy says slowly. “But I haven’t seen my cousin in years. And my aunt lives with my grandfather, so.” He shrugs, as if to say, _she’s no help._

“His father was turned into a tree,” Courfeyrac interjects.

Enjolras almost drops his mug. “What?”

“His father was turned into a tree.”

“Is that a metaphor for something?”

“No. He literally became a tree. A Wych Elm, I think.” 

Pontmercy nods.

“Wow. God, I’m sorry.”

“I was too young to ever know him,” Pontmercy says with a shrug. “So I’ve always just lived with my grandfather.” His grandfather who cursed him. Nothing is fair.

“And they can’t trace the magic back to him?” Enjolras asks.

Courfeyrac gives him an odd look. “What do you mean? You can’t trace people’s magic. It’s not like their signature is on it.”

“Grantaire can,” Enjolras argues. “He says that everyone’s magic feels different.”

“Everyone’s _emotions_ do,” Courfeyrac says. “To me, at least. But I don’t know anything about tracing magic.”

“Grantaire helped break my curse,” Enjolras says to Pontmercy, “and I’ve seen him break others. He and I could try to do something.”

Pontmercy sits silently for a long moment, blinking rapidly at Enjolras. Finally, he says, “I would be grateful if you could help.”

“I’ll talk to Grantaire about it,” Enjolras promises. Once Grantaire texts him, he can go.

Courfeyrac shoots him a grateful look. “Do you have a plan for the next few days?” he asks Pontmercy. “I assume something happened to the building where you were staying…”

Pontmercy nods unhappily. “I have been paying my landlord every month,” he says. “But this morning my grandfather came to interfere. He tried convincing me to go with him. When I refused, he talked to the landlord.” He looks down at the table. “So I need a new place to stay.”

Courfeyrac looks around and gives Combeferre a meaningful glance. 

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” Enjolras asks.

Pontmercy shakes his head.

“You can stay here,” Courfeyrac says instantly.

“Enjolras is staying here,” Combeferre reminds him gently.

“I can go,” Enjolras says. “I’m sure it’s safe to stay at Grantaire’s.” The witchboy hasn’t texted him yet, but it’s likely that he’s just forgotten. But maybe he’ll buy Grantaire a coffee on the way, just in case.

“I do not want to kick you out,” Pontmercy protests, but Enjolras waves him off.

“I thought I’d go see him anyway,” Enjolras says. “I haven’t heard from him since yesterday. And we can talk about Pontmercy’s curse.”

“You don’t need to go now, it’s still the afternoon,” Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras shrugs and smiles. It’s only inwardly bitter. “I’ve got nothing else to do with my day.”

Five minutes later he’s on the street, holding a book to his chest and treading the familiar route to Grantaire’s. It’s sunny, but there are clouds low on the horizon.

The streets are busier than the day before, and there seems to be more French flags around than usual. Enjolras is several blocks away from Courfeyrac’s before he remembers that it’s Bastille Day. Hopefully he won’t run into any parades or anything– it’s hard enough to move through the crowds of families on the streets. Maybe he’ll go see the fireworks tonight. He can’t imagine Grantaire will want to go, because he won’t be able to see them, but maybe Bossuet or Joly will be going. Or Feuilly. He’ll be able to watch the fireworks, even if he can’t hear them.

Enjolras is lost in thought the whole way to Grantaire’s house, which is why he doesn’t notice the creeping unease that steals over him until he’s halfway up the staircase to the apartment. He pauses with his foot hovering over one step, frowning, and tries to pinpoint what’s bothering him. He can’t feel any spellwork, and the door had been unlocked for him like always. He shakes it off and keeps going until he reaches the landing, where he knocks on the door and waits.

There’s no response.

He frowns and checks his watch. It’s not very late, but it’s far enough into the afternoon that it seems unlikely Grantaire would be gone, especially not with the streets being as crowded as they are. Also, if Enjolras concentrates, he can sense him. His magic. It’s faint, but definitely present. Enjolras can tell that Grantaire is in the apartment. _Why wouldn’t he answer the door?_ Enjolras knocks again.

No response.

He could be asleep, but somehow Enjolras doesn’t think so. Something feels wrong. What if Claquesous came back? What if his insidious magic returned to the apartment?

Enjolras lays a cautious hand on the doorknob. It’s locked. He grimaces and waits for a moment, but his unease is too strong. He tightens his grip on the doorknob and commands it, _“Open.”_

The lock moves with a grating sound. Enjolras tries the door again and grins in sharp triumph when it opens. He pokes his head inside the apartment, tentative, and calls out, “Grantaire?”

No one answers him. 

Enjolras steps fully into the room and stops almost at once, horrified. Grantaire is lying on one side by his tiny kitchen table, unnaturally still even though his eyes are still open. He looks like a corpse, enough that Enjolras has to fight down the urge to panic. He can still feel Grantaire’s magic– doesn’t that mean the witchboy must still be alive?

Enjolras rushes over to the table and drops to his knees, then freezes. Is Grantaire safe to touch? Enjolras steels himself and reaches for one wrist, feeling for a pulse. It’s there, but soft, unnaturally slow. “Why are you always making me find you like this?” Enjolras demands under his breath as he presses one ear to Grantaire’s chest to listen to his breathing. Every time he enters the apartment some new unnatural thing has happened to Grantaire and its horrifying. Last time he had too _much_ power; this time, it’s like he has none, and it’s worse. Enjolras never expected that his friend would draw so much danger to himself.

Grantaire’s breathing is thin and unsteady. Enjolras pulls back and runs his hands through his hair, trying to think. He knows nothing about medicine, about healing, especially not the magical variety. Last time he calmed Grantaire down with spells upon spells scrawled on his chest but he doesn’t know what to do this time, he doesn’t know how to put magic _back_ into a body. There’s only one thing he knows how to do, and that’s ask for what he wants.

“Wake up,” Enjolras says. He presses his hands to Grantaire’s chest and forces as much power into his voice as he can. “Grantaire, _wake up.”_

Grantaire spasms and twists. One of his fists flies up and catches Enjolras on the jaw, sending him sprawling. He hits the floorboards at a sharp angle and pain flares up from his shoulder and elbow, bright and distracting. Enjolras scrambles up onto his knees as Grantaire makes a horrible choking noise and scrabbles uselessly at the ground next to him. His eyes are half-lidded and unfocused. As Enjolras watches, panting, Grantaire grows still again. This time, his eyes close.

He looks even more lifeless now. Enjolras wrestles his phone out of his pocket and scrolls frantically through his contacts with shaking fingers. Thank god for Grantaire’s strange insistence that Enjolras keep bonds with every member of his friend group. He finds the right name and presses the call button as quickly as he can. _Please pick up please pick up please pick up–_

“Joly,” he gasps once he hears the voice on the other end. “Oh god, Joly, please come quick.”

*

It takes Joly about half an hour to get to Grantaire’s apartment, and Enjolras spends most of it with his head in his hands, breathing deeply and trying not to yell. He stays as close to Grantaire as he can without touching him, trying to make sure that Grantaire’s doesn’t stop breathing.

He jumps when Joly finally bursts through the door, leaning heavily on his cane. “Get him into the bedroom,” Joly orders, dropping a heavy black bag on the ground by the door. “Lay him on the bed.”

Enjolras hauls the body up, straining under Grantaire’ weight. The witchboy is shorter than him, but stockier. Joly does his best to help lift the legs; his cane makes the whole process a bit ungainly, but they manage to get into the bedroom without incident. Enjolras lays Grantaire on the bed and then presses himself back into a corner, trying to stay out of Joly’s way.

“How long has he been like this?”

“I don’t know. I saw him last night but not since then.”

Joly pulls off Grantaire’s shirt, presses two fingers into a black rune on Grantaire’s ribcage, and closes his eyes to focus. He moves to Grantaire’s throat, then peels back one of his eyelids. “Has he been taking stimulants lately?” Joly asks, surprised.

“Maybe?” Enjolras throws his hands up. “He had a flask with him when we went to get Babet, but I assumed it was... you know. Alcohol, or something.”

“It wouldn’t have been,” Joly says. “R’s been sober for years. You have no idea what it was?”

“No.” Enjolras fists his hands in his hair. “I’m sorry. God _dammit.”_ He doesn’t want to focus on Joly’s words, doesn’t want to consider the implications. Smart, lovely Grantaire– what had he done to himself in the blank years before Enjolras knew him? “Did he– did he take too much or something?”

“This has nothing to do with stimulants,” Joly says. “I was just surprised. Whatever this is, it’s magical. Fetch me my bag, would you?”

Enjolras darts into the main room and returns with the black leather bag. Joly opens it and pulls out a stethoscope and a few other instruments that Enjolras doesn’t recognize. He stays in the corner, silent, and watches as Joly runs through a methodical set of tests. Pulse. Breath. Reflex. Eventually, Joly presses a short silver instrument to the base of Grantaire’s throat for a long moment and just waits. Enjolras hardly breathes. The instrument beeps and displays a set of numbers. Joly scowls and puts it away.

“It’s like something is leeching all his power from him,” he mutters. “But what?”

“It might be Claquesous,” Enjolras says. “He’s someone Montparnasse knows, he put a spell on the apartment just the other day– this might be related to that.”

“Maybe.” Joly gets a faraway look on his face and climbs off the bed to he can go into the main room. Enjolras follows and watches as Joly starts going through the glass vials in Grantaire’ cabinet, murmuring the names to himself as he presses his black fingers to the labels. After a moment, he makes a noise of triumph and pulls out a short glass vessel filled with what looks like black sand.

He carries it back into the bedroom, saying, “This might help.”

Enjolras returns to his corner and watches and Joly unstops the bottle and pours a small measure of the strange, glittery black sand onto Grantaire’s chest.

“What is that?” Enjolras whispers. The sand is _moving._ It swirls steadily on Grantaire’s chest, round and around in time with his breathing.

“It’s fucking expensive, is what it is,” Joly mutters, watching. He’s already put the cork back in the bottle. “Don’t ask me where it comes from. I have no idea, and I don’t want to know. But it’s called witch dust. Or devil’s dust, depends on where you are.” He takes a careful step back as the sand starts to rise into the air, curling and twisting and catching the light in mesmerizing patterns. “Drop it into a room and it will stick to the magic like a magnet.” He runs his fingers roughly back through his hair. “Something is taking Grantaire’s power. This might help us figure out what.”

The magic continues to rise, ebbing and flowing but still swirling together.

“So we follow it?” Enjolras asks. “Chase it down the street like children after a butterfly?”

“I just want to see,” Joly mutters. “I just want to see where it goes.”

They watch. The black sand drifts. 

Enjolras is in a daze. He doesn’t realize the sand is heading for him until it hits his chest.

It’s soft. It doesn’t stop moving, just presses gently against his shirt and floats up to gather in the hollow between his collar bones.

He looks up at Joly, uncomprehending. The doctor is staring at him with his mouth pressed into a thin line. “It’s not Claquesous, it’s you,” he says. “You’re draining Grantaire’s magic.”

Enjolras feels himself go pale. He tries to speak, but no words come out.

Joly takes a step closer and lays one hand on Enjolras’s chest. His black fingers are right over the notch between Enjolras’s collar bones, catching the sand back in his palm. “Enjolras,” he says. “What did you _do?”_

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t know what I could have done.”

“Nothing?” Joly jostles him a little bit. “Focus. Look at me.”

Enjolras has to drag his eyes away from Grantaire’s limp body, the awful backward tilt of his chin. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t _know.”_

“Look at me,” Joly says again. “No bindings? No shared spells?”

“I haven’t been doing hardly any magic at all!”

“Would Grantaire have done something? Lent you power, given you help? Has he given you anything?”

“No!”

Joly straightens up and runs his fingers through his hair again. “Has there been anything lately that’s hinted at this?” he asks. “Anything at all. Sickness, or weariness…? Unusual amounts of energy?”

“The other night,” Enjolras says quickly. “He went a bit wild. He was floating, and glowing. His eyes changed color.”

Joly immediately goes back to inspecting Grantaire’s body. He runs his hands over the deep red scars on Grantaire’s hips before frowning and tugging down the waistband of the witchboy’s pants. The very tips of a red handprint are visible over his hipbone. Enjolras flushes and goes to turn his back but Joly’s next question stops him: “Why is the skin here yellow?”

“Is it still?” Enjolras asks, surprised. “It’s from experiment he and Bossuet were doing. Something to do with sunlight? Making it into paint? I’m not sure, I wasn’t here when it happened.”

“Jesus,” Joly mutters. “That explains that, then.”

“What? What does it explain?”

“Sunlight is horrifically powerful,” Joly explains. He pauses to mutter a few words and pull a globe of water out of thin air; he catches it with a scrap of cloth and uses it to wipe Grantaire’s brow. “If Grantaire absorbed too much of that energy it could have done what you described. It’s like a magical overdose. You said glowing and floating?”

“His voice hurt to listen to.”

“He was leaking magic from every pore. Everything would have hurt. Too much magic doesn’t feel good. It’s abrasive. It dissolves you.” Joly leans back again and presses his black fingers to his eyes. “None of this explains why he’s like this now. Or why you’ve been taking his energy.”

Enjolras backs up a few steps. “Should I leave? Would that help?”

Joly looks at Enjolras with an unreadable expression. “It might,” he admits. “Do you have somewhere you can go?”

Enjolras nods, miserable. “I could go stay with Courf again.” As soon as he says it he remembers that Pontmercy is there, but he doesn’t retract his statement. He’ll sleep on the floor if he has to. If it will keep Grantaire safe.

 _What have I done?_ Enjolras wonders bitterly as he goes into the main room. “Do you need anything before I go?”

“I’ll call Bossuet if I do,” Joly says. He’s still watching Enjolras carefully. The look on his face might be suspicion, which is terrifying. “I don’t want Grantaire getting worse before I can figure out what’s going on. Tell Combeferre and Courfeyrac what’s going on but don’t let anyone come over without my say-so, okay?”

“Fine.”

“Text me when you get there!”

“Fine.”

Enjolras slams the door behind him. He starts running as soon as he hits the street.

He runs towards the sun, weaving around the jubilant celebrations, trying to get away as fast as he can. He’s killing Grantaire. The blank eyes, the awful choking– Enjolras did that. Him and his greedy, dragging magic. He doesn’t know how to fix it. He keeps running. His lungs are burning.

His vision seems to jolt and waver with every sharp, tapping footfall on the pavement. Enjolras wishes he couldn’t see people staring at him, turning their heads to watch the young man running through Paris like he has a devil on his heels. The late afternoon sun has turned the streets a vibrant orange and it douses his vision in gold every time a lock of his own hair sweeps before his eyes.

He’d run all the way to the Bastille if he could. Run all the way there and lock himself inside, and tell the masses not to let anyone out this time.

He reaches on the edge of an open square he doesn’t recognize, one with a fountain and a statue and flocks of pigeons moving clumsily on the open patches of pavement. There are people everywhere here, drinking and singing and enjoying the late sunlight. Enjolras gasps, trying to catch his breath. He can’t think. He spins around, knotting his fingers in his air, and swears frantically.

As if on cue the pigeons burst into flight. They explode into the air, a flashing storm of gray and white and undignified noise that swirls around him, close enough that the feathers brush his outstretched fingertips before the pigeons take to the sky. Enjolras staggers as he watches them go, still breathless.

Some of the people in the square are looking at him. Enjolras starts running again.

His throat burns. The sky is a beautiful shade of blue, all the more mocking for the way it has come crashing down around his shoulders.

Enjolras drops to an unsteady walk after a few more blocks, feeling like his chest is going to burst open. The sun is going to set soon, and he doesn’t know where he is. It might not be safe to be out alone after dark, though the streets are still full of revelers. He looks around, irritated, and starts heading back up the street he was walking down. He barely makes it a few steps before a voice stops him. “Where might you be headed?”

Enjolras scowls and spins around. “What do you want?”

Montparnasse has appeared behind him in the crowd. The angles of his face have changed once again; they’re sharper now, more deadly. His eyes are flecked with silver. “I heard Grantaire got ahold of something nasty,” Montparnasse says, stepping up to meet Enjolras’s gaze. “I’m surprised that you’re running away.”

“It’s safer for him right now if I go,” Enjolras admits through gritted teeth.

Montparnasse raises his eyebrows. “I bet that drives you wild. No chance to play the shining knight this time.” He reaches up and lays one finger on the coin hanging from Enjolras’s neck, pressing the gold into Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras has no idea how the thief even knew the coin was there; it’s hidden under his shirt. “Come with me.”

“They’re expecting me at Courfeyrac’s,” Enjolras says.

“I’ll send a raven to let them know you were indisposed,” Montparnasse says. “Come with me.”

Before Enjolras can say another word, Montparnasse presses a gloved hand over Enjolras’s eyes, and everything goes black.

*

Enjolras wakes up to find a pair of dark brown eyes mere inches from his own. He lashes out without even blinking and slaps Montparnasse straight across the face, hard, with his open hand. Montparnasse jerks back, cursing.

“He’s awake,” a second person says. His voice is high and clear, like a bell. Babet.

“What the _hell,”_ Montparnasse snarls, pressing one hand to his face, “was that for?”

“You fucking _kidnapped_ me,” Enjolras snaps. He sits up and pushes himself back, away from the furious thief. 

“You wouldn’t have come willingly!”

“If you had _asked_ I might have!”

“This might come as a shock to you,” Babet cut in dryly, “but Montparnasse has more experience transporting dead bodies than live ones.”

Enjolras recoils, horrified, but Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “I haven’t killed anyone, Babet,” he says loftily. 

“You haven’t killed anyone _yet.”_

“I would _never.”_

“Only because you’d worry about getting blood on your pretty clothes, you pompous bastard.”

“Can you two do this later?” Enjolras asks loudly.

“Rude.”

“Hush,” Montparnasse says. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

“What do you want with me?” Enjolras demands. “Where am I?” He doesn’t recognize this room. It looks long-abandoned. The floor is dark wood, scratched and torn up in places, and the white wallpaper is peeling. There’s one door opposite Enjolras, and one large window with all the glass broken out. Mismatched and ill-treated furniture is scattered around the room.

“Secrecy is paramount,” Montparnasse says. He draws on his cigarette for a long moment and tips his head back to blow the indigo smoke into the air. “I’m afraid I don’t trust you yet, so you don’t get to know where we are.”

Babet goes to stand by the window and looks out. He looks pale and unusual in the sunlight, like a nocturnal creature brought into the day against its will. He’s wearing black shirt with long sleeves, so Enjolras can’t see the new red handprints all over his arms. He looks tired.

“Why don’t you trust me?”

“I thought you were naïve,” Montparnasse says conversationally. “I thought you were a cursed schoolboy with powerful friends and pretty hair. And you let me believe that– very unkind of you, you know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The gold.”

Enjolras stills. “I don’t want to talk to you about that.”

“Too bad. We’re discussing it.”

“No. I’m leaving.” Enjolras moves towards the exit.

In a flash, Montparnasse slides in front of the door, directly in Enjolras’s way. He’s close enough to touch. “You’ve been playing a very dangerous game for a very long time,” he says, low and menacing. “How many people’s lives have you ruined with that gold, you pompous brat?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Enjolras says coldly. “Get out of my face.”

“Your gold disappears once you give it away,” Montparnasse snarls. “You’ve been paying off debts with nothing but empty magic.”

“What?” Enjolras stares at him, feeling wrong-footed. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t _know?”_ Montparnasse makes a frustrated noise and grabs at the thin chain around Enjolras neck until he can hold up the coin between them. “This, you ignorant child, is nothing. It’s not real. This is magic with a shape, and do you know what happens as soon as it strays from its magician? It _dissolves.”_

Enjolras’s head is spinning, but that doesn’t stop him. “Do you think you have the right to criticize me, you thieving bastard?” he asks, voice low.

“If my survival didn’t depend on stealing,” Montparnasse says, _“which it does,_ you could call me a hypocrite. But you’re just a rich kid making yourself richer with false gold. There is _nothing_ similar about you and I.” He drops the coin and takes a step back, looking disgusted.

“You seem to be laboring under a few misconceptions,” Enjolras says with freezing civility. “I had no idea that gold disappears.”

“Oh, sure.”

“I’m _serious.”_

“Do you know _anything_ about your own curse?”

“I thought it was simple. A coin for every word.”

“And you never tested it? Never experimented?”

“If my voice gave out, so did the coins,” Enjolras responds. Did he ever experiment? No. Was he ever experimented _on?_ That’s a different question, and not one he feels like answering.

“I suspect your parents weren’t fond of you getting colds, then,” Montparnasse says.

“Why do you care about my curse now?” Enjolras asks loudly. He doesn’t want to talk about his parents. “It’s gone. I’m never going to be dropping coins again, not like I was. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Oh yes it does. Because you still have a whole hoard of gold, don’t you? Want to know something interesting? It _disappears.”_ Enjolras shakes his head, still disbelieving, and Montparnasse smiles with grim delight. “Disappears as though it never existed,” he adds. “Vanishes as though it’s been stolen.”

“Are you sure it _wasn’t_ stolen?” Enjolras asks.

“I’m positive.”

“Okay… There are some shopkeepers in Provence I’ve wronged, clearly.” He swallows down a bolt of discomfort, thinking about the accordion player from the Latin Quarter. “Why is it so important to you?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” Montparnasse says.

“What? No.”

“It’s all you. You’re not stealing gold from everyone, you’re not pulling this from somewhere. Your body is literally making gold.”

 _What?_ “Was.”

“You’re an alchemist. Literally. It’s very elegant. But as soon as you spend it or give it away…” He waves one hand in the air, obviously trying to convey _it fucking disappears._

“That isn’t possible,” Enjolras snaps. “Do you know how much power that would take?”

“A lot,” Montparnasse agrees. “Which is why you bother me. What have you done, Enjolras? Why have you come walking into Paris like a bomb with the fuse lit?”

It isn’t Paris that bothers him right now. If Enjolras’s gold disappears, that means he’s been tricking people all along. That means his _parents_ were tricking people, the whole time he was growing up. Enjolras feels ill. How many more lives can he ruin?

“What do you want me to say?” Enjolras asks angrily. “I didn’t have any grand designs when I came here, I’m not here to hurt you or your friends. I don’t know why my magic is the way it is.”

“You’d better figure it out,” Montparnasse says. “Sounds like it’s already effecting those you’re close to.”

With a pang, Enjolras remembers Grantaire. His mysterious malaise. The steady drain of his magic. He’s the reason Grantaire’s in a fucking coma right now. He stares unseeingly at the wall. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits.

“Tragic,” Montparnasse says. Enjolras rounds on him.

“Don’t you _care?”_ he demands.

“Of course I do,” Montparnasse says. “But I have complete faith that you’re going to fix him. And if you don’t, well.” He shrugs. “I’m going to kill you.”

Enjolras takes a step back.

“Are you still afraid of death?” Babet asks from behind him. “You shouldn’t be. Don’t you think Grantaire would have someone bring you back?”

Enjolras turns to look at Babet’s pale skin, the unnatural gray of his eyes. “I don’t want that.” When he dies, he wants to stay dead.

Babet stares back. He clearly doesn’t feel the same. “It’s better than the alternative,” he says. He’s close enough that Enjolras can see the tattoos on the insides of his wrists, stark black against his pale skin. Both look like German; Enjolras can’t read them. He wonders if Babet got them before or after he died. He wonders if it matters.

“I have some work for you, once Grantaire is better,” Montparnasse adds casually. Like he hadn’t just threatened murder.

“I’m not doing anything illegal for you,” Enjolras says instantly. He needs to keep in mind that ‘criminal’ doesn’t have to be synonymous with ‘enemy.’

“Where’s your sense of adventure? You’re in with the outcasts now, darling. My very existence is illegal.” Montparnasse takes another long drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke in Babet’s direction.

“What do you want?” Enjolras asks warily.

“Nothing terrible. A friend of a friend has a curse that could use breaking. I thought you and Grantaire could help, since that seems to be your specialty lately.” He’s not wrong. Enjolras has already promised to help Pontmercy with his curse, but surely he and Grantaire can aid Montparnasse’s friend as well.

A thought occurs. “You have to do something for me in return,” Enjolras says slowly. 

Montparnasse sighs. “I’ve been afraid of the day you would learn to barter. Well, what do you want?”

A million impossible things. But all Enjolras says is, “Return that stolen Cézanne.”

Babet actually pouts. “It’s a beautiful painting.”

“How would you know?” Enjolras asks blankly. “You can’t see color.”

Babet turns away and Montparnasse scowls. “Aside from that, do you know how much it’s _worth?”_

“It’s not worth endangering Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “Put it back, and Claquesous will stop coming after you for it.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’d rather not get murdered in the street because of you, thanks.”

“It would be in the catacombs,” Babet speaks up. “He doesn’t murder people in broad daylight, don’t be gauche.”

“Oh, of course not,” Enjolras bites back.

“All of this is useless, of course, if you don’t heal Grantaire,” Montparnasse points out. 

“Do I need to remind you again that I don’t know _how?”_ Enjolras starts to pace. “His friend is with him, and he’s a doctor. He’s going to fix Grantaire, all right?”

“Having someone else clean up your messes, are we?” Montparnasse holds his cigarette out and delicately flicks the ash off the tip. “How typical for the rich.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Enjolras snaps.

“That’s what it looks like.” Montparnasse puts the cigarette back in his mouth and raises his eyebrows. “It’s almost textbook. You’re like a child in a pond, splashing your magic around without any concern for who gets hit. Lighting up La Place Saint-Michel like a goddamn phoenix. You’re overwhelming.” He takes a step closer to Enjolras and meets his eyes very coolly. “And you’re careless,” he adds lightly, then blows a plume of blue smoke right at Enjolras’s eyes.

Enjolras refuses to blink. “Get out of my face,” he orders. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Why are you so afraid to help him?” Montparnasse murmurs back.

“It’s my fault he’s like this,” Enjolras says lowly, trying to carve each word into Montparnasse’s head. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

Montparnasse tips his head to one side. “It would be fitting. You know what they say: ‘Each man kills the thing he loves.’”

Something in Enjolras’s head breaks. “I said _back off!”_ he explodes, throwing his hands out. His throat burns and his vision goes white; the air around him comes alive with the sound of wind and crackling fire. 

Montparnasse flies back and hits the wall opposite with an awful sound; Babet is knocked right off his feet. Everything within fifteen feet of Enjolras is forced further away as though by a shock wave. When the light disappears, there are scorch marks on the floor. The air is hot and still smells of smoke.

Enjolras is panting. He feels like he’s just run a mile. He’s a single point in the middle of a ring of devastation. A monolith among the leftover glimmers and shivers of excess magic.

Babet rolls over with a groan. “Fucking hell,” he mutters.

Montparnasse picks himself up off the ground with a wicked smile. His cheekbone is cut open and dripping blood down his face. “Excellent,” he says hoarsely. Then he starts to cough.

Enjolras sways, lightheaded. “What did you just make me do?” he whispers.

“I was proving a point,” Montparnasse rasps. “Quite doubting yourself. It gives me a headache.” He looks up at Enjolras. His eerie smile is still firmly in place, stretched across his face like a scar, edged with blood. “You want Grantaire to be fixed? Go and do it yourself. You have power the likes of which I’ve never seen, golden boy.” His smile widens. “Maybe you didn’t come to Paris with an agenda. Maybe you didn’t want to get tied up in the revolution. But you’re here, sweetheart, and you’re just going to have to make the most of it.” He turns his head to cough again. “Welcome to hell.”

*

Enjolras leans his head on the door to Grantaire’s apartment for a long moment before he knocks. He isn’t sure if anyone will be there to answer him– what if Joly decided that Grantaire was better off in the hospital?– but a moment later Bossuet opens the door and stares at him. “Enjolras,” he says, startled.

Enjolras pushes his way inside. “Is Joly still here?”

“What?” Joly enters the living room from the bedroom and frowns when he sees Enjolras. “I thought you went to Courfeyrac’s.”

“If I’m the one that did this,” Enjolras says, “I should be the one to fix it.”

Joly narrows his eyes. “Do you really think I’m going to leave you alone with him?” he asks, coldly. It’s been hours since Enjolras left, and Joly’s work has clearly been taking a toll. He looks exhausted, worried, and thoroughly unwilling to listen to Enjolras. “I hardly know you, and I don’t know what you’ve done other than this.” He waves a hand behind him at Grantaire’s bedroom. “How on earth do you expect me to trust you?”

“Mark me up with truth spells if you want,” Enjolras says, holding out his wrists. “Put a binding on me, pull the thoughts from my head, I don’t care. Just let me try to fix him.”

“You can trust him, Joly,” Bossuet says quietly. “I’ll vouch for him.”

Enjolras locks eyes with Joly and waits. The doctor looks between him and Bossuet, exasperated, before he throws his hands up and says, “Fine. Fine! Have at it!”

“You should leave,” Enjolras says.

Joly rounds on him again. “Do you seriously think–?”

“Joly,” Bossuet says.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing!”

“Look at him,” Bossuet says. “He knows.”

Joly turns back to Enjolras and meets his eyes for a long, quavering moment. Then he sighs deeply and presses one hand to his face. “If you hurt my friend…” he starts to threaten, but then he shakes his head and drops it. “Fine. _Fine._ I don’t think you can make it worse than it already is, and god knows I haven’t been able to do anything to help yet.”

He picks up his bag and strides, off-beat, over to the door. Bossuet follows him after shooting one more encouraging look at Enjolras.

Then the apartment is quiet, and Enjolras is there alone with Grantaire’s quiet body. The unchanging rhythm of his breath. His limp hands. It’s horrible. Enjolras wishes, suddenly and violently, that he hadn’t sent the others away. He stands in the doorway to Grantaire’s small bedroom, watching the witchboy’s chest rise and fall. He could be asleep, if it weren’t for the dread in Enjolras’s chest that contradicts the peace of the scene.

Grantaire’s black cat twines herself around Enjolras’s ankles and peers up at him. He looks down at her and sighs deeply. “I know,” he says in a low voice. “I miss him too.” He crouches down and scratches her behind the ears, then goes into the kitchen to see about finding her some food.

The sky outside the window is a deep plum, darkened by storm clouds moving over Paris and colored by the sunset descending behind the furthest reaches of the skyline. Enjolras pushes the window open and closes his eyes against the breeze, cold and sweet on his face. It smells like rain. There’s also a faint buzz in the air that tells him lightning is on the way. He’s glad for it, though he knows everyone out trying to celebrate Bastille Day will be displeased.

He wonders if taking Grantaire outside would help him. He remembers something, vaguely, a throwaway comment about rainwater as a purifier. Maybe it would purge the strange, unsteady disease from Grantaire’s magic. But he doesn’t think he can carry the witchboy out of the apartment on his own.

He sets a teacup on the windowsill to collect rainwater. Then he refills the cat’s bowls and rescues the hedgehog from under the bookcase.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says to the cat, who is regarding him balefully from the floor. “I’m doing everything I can.”

The rain starts falling just as Enjolras sits at the little wooden table to think. He feels unusually clear-headed. The quiet is a relief. He isn’t often alone. He can hardly count this moment as solitude, with Grantaire’s heavy presence in the other room, but some storm in him has dissipated. He feels cold and clever. He feels like he could raze the street to the ground with a single pointed word. His voice feels like a physical stone, resting heavy in the back of his throat.

The lights in Grantaire’s apartment go out.

Enjolras doesn’t move at first. He stays in the gloom, listening to the rain. His hands are curled into fists on the table. After a moment he stands and leans out the window again, looking down the street. It looks like the whole block has lost power. The rain is coming down in a torrent. The teacup is full.

He brings it inside and closes the window, muffling the sound of the storm. The black cat has fled. The hedgehog is back under the bookcase. Enjolras stands in the middle of the living room for a long moment, trying to steady himself. His hands are shaking, sending tremors across the surface of the water in the cup.

He carries the teacup into the bedroom. The shadows are deeper here, but Enjolras doesn’t need the light to navigate. He sits on the edge of Grantaire’s small blue bed and reaches out until he finds the ridged curve of Grantaire’s ribcage. Then he upends the water over Grantaire’s chest.

He holds his breath. He waits. His thoughts feel numbered and orderly, a line of equations on a clean white page. His hands are still trembling.

Grantaire’s breathing doesn’t change.

Enjolras slumps over, defeated, and presses his forehead to Grantaire’s sternum. He can feel the rainwater on his skin. He wishes he could _fix_ this, but he doesn’t know how. He can’t wrap the sharp lines of magic around his fist and break them open. He can’t pull it away like cobwebs or errant string. 

“Tell me how to fix you,” he whispers. Then he maneuvers himself up so he can press a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead.

Grantaire’s breath catches.

Enjolras jolts back, alarmed, just in time to see Grantaire’s eyes flicker open.

**Author's Note:**

> some notes:
> 
>  _la manche_ (the sleeve) is a french name for the english channel. _mor breizh_ means the same thing, but in breton.
> 
> shoutout to goodreads for always helping me find the weirdly specific quotes from french poets that i need.
> 
> this series still isn’t done! there are things that will be explained/explored further! never fear! i have Plans!
> 
> on tumblr i’m [kvothes,](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/tagged/x) where i cultivate a [modern magic tag](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/tagged/modern_magic) of things that inspire this series and ramblings about the writing process. i also having a writing inspo blog at [sweetprincet.](http://sweetprincet.tumblr.com/tagged/x) feel free to drop by and say hello!
> 
> ETA: there is a short guide to who has what power [here!](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/post/166022374145/hello-im-a-huge-fan-of-your-witchboy-series-no)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Vibrancy by tothewillofthepeople](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817150) by [TheLordOfLaMancha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordOfLaMancha/pseuds/TheLordOfLaMancha)




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